


alternative methods

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Autistic Chara, Domestic, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7285123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chara tries to be a good person and it's exhausting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	alternative methods

**Author's Note:**

> ?????????? I don’t know. I'm sorry
> 
> warnings for references to past child abuse and prejudice/discrimination against monsters. Is that a thing to warn for??? I'm not sure, but Just In Case, cuz like...it’s not explicit, but there are references to various microaggressions that might be kinda stressful for people to read about

The year you turn eighteen, you decide to try your hand at being a good person.

You’re not entirely sure why it took you so long to give it a shot. You think it’s probably because you were homeschooled, too afraid of going out in public to be able to withstand the strain. As a result, you don’t get the opportunity to become properly reacquainted with humanity’s dickishness until you start university and first run into someone who snorts derisively when you mention living with monsters.

It surprises you. Nobody had ever used that against you before. In the past, it had always been about _you,_ not your family – your lack of social graces, your lack of basic empathy, your lack of humanity in general. And then there’d been that blissful period of time in which nobody had dared to use anything against you at all, because the Dreemurrs hadn’t allowed it near you, and you hadn’t dared to step outside their social circle long enough for it to come and find you.  

It catches you off guard, of course – the whispers and the looks _,_ the cracks about _the best monsters can do._ And because you’re caught off guard, you find yourself freezing up entirely every single time it happens, unable to muster up the spite necessary to bite them back.

You would have in the past. You k _now_ you would have. Your instinct’s always been to assume that those around you have an ulterior motive; even if they don’t necessarily want to hurt you, at the very least they’ll turn out to be indifferent to the pain they cause, and in your mind, if they’re human, it’s inevitable they’ll cause pain.  

You miss the days when things could be that simple. Because you _can’t_ just feel spiteful anymore. Instead, you feel guilty _._ Because for once, the shitty humans in your life aren’t just talking about you – they’re talking about the _people you care about_.

Your guilt is not enough for you to start loving humanity. You don’t think _anything_ could make you do _that._ It is, however, enough for you to privately resolve to try and get yourself together, if only for the sake of all those kind enough to take you in. You refuse to serve as proof that monsters are somehow lesser beings; you refuse to let people believe that the Dreemurrs somehow damaged you, when the truth is that they saved you.   

(The damage was already done, long before they took you in, but nobody cares about that.)

For the most part, you manage. You can make it through the day with a careful smile on your face, appeasing all you come across with a carefully selected witty phrase or charming laugh, just bright enough to make the strangers that surround you leave you be. You know enough about the way the world is meant to work to be able to pretend that you belong there, consciously imitating all that you have seen while carefully suppressing all you really are, playing the part of a human being well enough that you sometimes almost fool yourself.

You do well, in your opinion. For a long, long time, you manage to give them nothing to gossip about, no ammunition with which to target monsters. It’s exhausting, but a week at a time is doable, so long as you’re still free to crash and be as sulky and unpleasant as you please on the weekend when nobody can see and judge.

But it’s _hard_ sometimes, pretending to be good. Sure, it’s different than the way it was Before – Before, you had no choice, Before, you had no way of ever being bad, Before, there was always an unspoken threat. There’s no such pressure now, and if there is, it comes entirely from within; from your own desire to be better than the shitty kid that you immediately became once you had the freedom to be flawed.

You’d like to think your new desire is a noble one. But it comes back to bite you sometimes, and it really doesn’t feel as though a truly noble desire should be as frustrating to carry out as this one is.

Every book you’ve ever read would probably tell you otherwise, but fuck that – if being good is so important, then why is it so _hard?_

Or maybe it’s only hard for people like you. Maybe it comes as naturally as breathing to those who aren’t already lost causes.

Whatever. You’re managing somehow.

At least, you are until the weekend Frisk invites everybody over to watch anime.

You knew that it was coming. Frisk asked if it was okay over a week in advance, and you had plenty of time to prepare yourself or make alternative plans, the way Asriel had. But you, idiot that you are, foolishly decided that you could take it, that you wanted to participate, that you could handle not getting your break from social interaction for the week. 

It’s nobody’s fault – you _know_ that it’s nobody’s fault – and you’re not about to tell Frisk that they can’t have friends over just because you’re an antisocial asshole. You know they’re not like you – for them, they _need_ to be around people, and if they aren’t, their mood sinks just as much as yours does when you’re around too many.

If your social needs are incompatible – if _one_ of you has to be left feeling like shit – you’d rather it be you. At least you know that you can take it. After all, you spent almost your entire childhood coping with enforced social interaction, and Frisk spent almost _their_ entire childhood neglected and alone. They need company more than you need solitude. It’s fine.

But of course the weekend leaves you feeling drained. Sure, it’s fun – being with monsters is never as bad as being with humans, and there’s something kind of nice about getting to laugh and shout as a group instead of doing so all by yourself and having somebody awkwardly point out that what you’re laughing at isn’t really funny. Plus, there are snacks, lots of snacks, and you and Alphys get to argue over all her bad opinions, and…and really, it should have been okay.

If you were normal, it _would_ have been okay.

But you’re _not_ normal, and you don’t get the time you need to recharge, because you’re an idiot and thought it wouldn’t matter. And people suck in general, and you struggle with them even on the best days, and you’re _tired,_ and as a result, the following Monday is complete and utter hell.

It’s not like anything particularly bad happens, you guess.

But for the entire day, it feels as though people keep trying to speaking to you, utterly ignoring all the utterly unsubtle hints you drop about wanting to be left alone. It’s all about the inanest shit, too – like, _oh, where’d you get that sweater?_ and _what do you think of Mr. Ingman’s class?_ and _hey, is it true you’re dating a monster? What’s_ that _like? Aren’t they kind of…_

You try and tell yourself the last one was meant innocently, because a Good Person would at least give these people a chance before jumping down their throats. You try and tell yourself that it _wasn’t_ spoken with the faintest hint of disgust by somebody with no business asking you such things. You try and tell yourself that it didn’t make your skin crawl just to hear it.

Because it’s probably just you, isn’t it? You _know_ you can be difficult. You know you often mess up all the unspoken rules of social interaction. You know that you’re far worse than you have any right to be, that if people are gossiping it’s because of something _you_ did, that it must somehow be all your fault, because things like this are _always_ your fault.

There’s no reason to think the worst of someone just because they said something that might possibly be shitty. Right?

You try and tell yourself all that, at least. But you guess it doesn’t work, because you seriously want to injure every single person who so much as looks at you that day.

(You remember: that sick feeling in your stomach when you first realized why you were being stared at in the grocery store. That person on the television who called certain things _unnatural,_ and who cares, you never wanted children anyway. All those ugly, hypocritical _humans_ who stare at you with pity in their eyes when they hear that you were raised by monsters, when you know perfectly well they never cared before, and that they only do so now because it sure looks bad, doesn’t it, for a child raised by monsters to be as troubled as you are?)

(You’d hoped that humanity would grow up a little in your time Underground, but you guess that was too much to ask for. A century is not enough for anything to change.)

You run out of polite responses by noon. From that point onwards, it’s purely a matter of endurance, until finally, _finally_ , you’re back in your apartment and free to slump against the door, sighing heavily in relief.

You immediately head into the kitchen, thinking to put the kettle on and drown your sorrows. However, Frisk is already there, already pouring a cup of fragrant tea into your favourite mug. They press it into your hand, answering your unspoken question with an, “I saw you coming down the street. You looked tired.”

You accept the mug and take a sniff. Smells like apples and honey.

“Want to talk about it?” Frisk asks, their voice as soft as ever.

There’s not much you can say other than _having fun with you this weekend left me feeling tired and now I have no patience for the world’s BS._ So you say nothing, instead taking a sip of tea. You try and tell yourself that it’s a healing potion, one that restores your strength bit by bit as its warmth courses through your body, but despite how delicious it is, you’re still left feeling exhausted afterwards.

Expression solemn, Frisk leans forward and plants a quick smooch upon your cheek. You make a face, but it’s more for show than it is a sign of actual disgust; as always, their presence is like a balm, with even the simplest gestures of affection offering almost untold comfort.

“You’re tired,” Frisk says, less a question than an observation.

“I feel like I’m dead,” you reply, taking another sip. “A shambling, rotting corpse. Bits of me are falling off. Maybe I’ll find an eyeball in the tea.”

“What should we do for dinner?” Frisk asks, ignoring you completely.

“Make Asriel pick something up,” you say, ignoring their ignoring of you in favour of latching onto yet another way to punish Asriel. The idiot’s a member of some student collective or whatever now, something that’s made him come home late for the past seven hundred years, even when you really, really want to see him. For that, you demand restitution, preferably in the form of take-out. Maybe Chinese.

Frisk nods, then reaches for your mug. You hadn’t even noticed that it was empty. You almost want to cling to it a second longer, to pretend that yes, you’d realized that the tea was gone and was holding onto it _intentionally,_ but that would just be silly, and so you let them take the mug, scowling only a little bit.

Placing the mug in the sink, Frisk says, “You should take a nap,” with all the decisiveness of a doctor prescribing you the best remedy they know.

“I don’t have to take orders from _you,”_ you say.

But Frisk only smiles, and somehow, you find yourself heading to the bedroom.

Your intention is to change your clothes, not to take a nap, but you don’t quite make it. One moment your shrugging off your cardigan and the next you’re lying facedown on the mattress, listening to the sounds of the evening. The curtains are still open, as is the window, letting in the wind and sunlight. The rows of potted plants on the windowsill rustle in the breeze, and if you keep your eyes closed, then you can almost pretend that you’re outside and basking in a summer afternoon.

You guess you probably black out at some point after that.

When you wake up an hour later, it’s because you feel a dip in the mattress that wasn’t there before. When you open your eyes, Asriel is gazing down at you with a particularly warm expression that you like to tell yourself is reserved for you and you alone.

“I wasn’t sure how deeply you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you up too suddenly,” he explains, as though he hadn’t just been wanting an excuse to watch you sleep.

You yawn and stretch, ignoring the tiny _crick_ you hear in your back as you do so. “So thoughtful,” you murmur.

“Is that an insult?” Asriel asks.

“Of course not!”

“I can never tell with you,” he replies, but he sounds amused. “I brought home food – wanna come eat? Or should I bring it here?”

You run through the options in your head. On the one hand, you could make Asriel carry you, using your exhaustion as an excuse to be particularly clingy. On the other hand, you could make him eat in here with you so that you can snuggle without having to leave your bed.

“Bring it here,” you say. “And get your laptop. We should watch a movie or something while we eat.”

By the time Asriel returns, you’ve somehow managed to sit up. You’re still not changed, but you’ve decided that it’s fine; your sweater is a comfortable one, and you’re not interested enough in wearing pajamas to feel inclined towards leaving the comfort of your bed just to put them on.

You help yourself to beef chow fun while he sets up the laptop, not bothering to wait. You’re hungry, so you’ll eat, regardless of whether or not your company is ready. You’ve never understood the point of trying to synchronize meals and you don’t intend to waste your energy on attempting it now.

You finish eating far sooner than Asriel does, and that’s how you end up sitting behind him, perched atop a stack of pillows so that you can see over him as you play with his longer fur.

“I don’t think it’s long enough for you to braid,” he says at one point through a mouthful of dumpling.

“Like that’ll stop me,” you reply, happily continuing to part his fur. Even though it’s not as long as you would like, it’s still silky-soft and just being allowed to play with it is doing wonders for your mood.

It turns out that he’s right and his fur is, in fact, too short for you to braid, despite how long and fluffy it’s become since he chose to grow it out. Still, by the time you’re ready to give up on your endeavour, he’s finished eating as well and you’re free to climb in front of him and curl up against his chest, so you’ll consider it a win.

You haven’t been paying enough attention to know what’s going on in the movie he set up for you. Somebody onscreen is getting stabbed, but you can’t be bothered to deduce why, and so you mostly tune it out, letting the sounds of violence fade into the background as you listen instead to the rhythm of his heart.

You guess Asriel isn’t paying much attention either, because not long afterwards he asks, “Did something happen today?”

“No,” you lie. It’s an innocent lie, one told to keep him from worrying, so you won’t let yourself feel guilty for falling back into bad habits. “Why?”

“Frisk seemed…not worried, exactly? But concerned, like they thought you needed cheering up.”

You shrug. At least, you shrug as much as one can manage when they’ve sunk as heavily into someone else’s chest as you have.

“Nothing happened,” you say, glancing up and offering a smile that you hope is reassuring and not simply pacifying. “I’m just tired today, that’s all.”

You guess it probably says a lot about the two of you that his eyes instantly become alight with understanding. Apparently, you don’t need to say anything else – just the words _I’m tired_ are enough for Asriel to put together part of what has happened, and the concern on his face immediately becomes replaced with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  

“Why are you apologizing?” you ask, as though you don’t already know. You want to give him a chance to backtrack.

“You’re not usually this tired at the beginning of the week,” he answers. “It was a bad idea to leave you here alone over the weekend. I should have…”

“Asriel,” you interrupt. Alhough the position is awkward, you lift a hand to cup his cheek, cutting him off before he can really start to dig himself into a hole. “You don’t _actually_ have to follow me around everywhere, and it’s not like you could’ve made me go with you. It’s not your fault. I’m a big kid, I know what I need, and I chose to ignore that.”

“Still,” he answers, looking unhappy.

“I’m just burnt out,” you say, letting your hand fall. “It’s nobody’s fault but my own.”

At this, Asriel gives a disbelieving _hm_.

You curl your hand into a fist and slam it lightly against his leg.

“Ow!”

Oops. Apparently not that lightly after all.

“Don’t be like that,” you say anyway. You’re not entirely sure what _that_ is, only that you don’t like it and won’t cuddle with him any longer if he keeps it up.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and to his credit, he genuinely sounds contrite.

“Good,” you say, and you pat the spot that you had struck.  

For a while, you are silent, keeping your eyes fixed upon the small screen of the laptop as Asriel takes his turn playing with your hair. He doesn’t appear to be trying to braid it or anything, merely running through it with his fingers, and you try and ignore how soothing the sensation is, instead focusing on the woman being devoured by rabid squirrels onscreen.

It really isn’t anybody’s fault, you tell yourself. Odds are, nothing that happened today is actually worthy of your irritation. Nobody had been openly rude to you, just…impolite, maybe, and Good, Decent People don’t lose their heads over slight impoliteness. And even if people _were_ looking down on you, you can cope, just so long as it doesn’t get back to the Dreemurrs.

It’s like you told Asriel. You’re worn out from being around other people all weekend, and your fuse is even shorter than it normally is. Nothing that happened warrants this much residual anger. Nothing you should act upon, at any rate.

Swallow it down.

“It’s almost seven,” Asriel says abruptly, hand stilling. “Do you have anything you need to do tonight?”

“Probably,” you say.

“Anything _important,”_ he clarifies.

You consider. For Asriel, _important_ is anything unrelated to the two of you that cannot possibly be postponed a moment longer without somebody getting angry and lecturing one of you (him) on responsibility. You have homework that you’d kind of wanted to get started on, but nothing that could be considered important – nothing is due for another week, and you already know that you can zip through the assigned readings in the mornings before class, if not during.

“I guess not,” you say.

“Do you want to. Um,” he begins, and you immediately sit up, turning around so that you can grab his face between your hands and squish his cheeks in.

“I absolutely do,” you say.

He looks flustered, but it’s adorable. _He’s_ adorable. Even if he can be a pain in the butt sometimes, it’s worth it just to have the chance to be so close to him and his _stupid_ _face._

Without waiting for a response – his broaching the topic in the first place _was_ his response, wasn’t it? – you lean in and kiss him, and he eagerly kisses you back, and the movie quietly continues in the background.

Maybe some people would have insisted upon it being turned off, calling it a moodkiller. But although the thought occurs to you, you can’t bring yourself to stop and say anything. Because in the corner of your mind, you can still see people eyeing you in the hall, asking, _hey, is it true…?_ and that’s enough to make you ignore it.

You don’t like lying to strangers; it gives them too much room to misinterpret you. But if anybody asks what you were up to tonight, you can’t exactly say _I got distracted by my partner’s tongue and then suddenly it was bedtime._ They’ll just assume your blunt confession is a euphemism for something else, and then you’ll have even _more_ uncomfortable assumptions to work around in your daily life. You’ll have even _more_ people whispering behind your back, asking questions like it’s any of their business, making sly innuendos like they know a single goddamn thing about your life, like any of the rumours are true, like you’re _unnatural_ , and youhatethemyouhatethemyouhatethemyou –

Well.

If you leave the movie going, then you can just pull its name out as your reason for losing an entire evening. Plausible deniability. You won’t feel as though you’re lying, nobody will presume to know what you were _really_ up to, and everything will be fine.

It’s something you’ve done before, and you know that Asriel doesn’t really get it, but he’s used to it by now. Maybe he just sees it as yet another one of your quirks, or maybe an attempt to multitask. Whatever he thinks the purpose is, he knows better than to comment on it.

It’s dumb. You _know_ it’s dumb. But it helps, okay?

At least, it’s _supposed_ to help.

But you guess it doesn’t, really, because you can’t stop thinking about classmates giggling when they ask what you were up to the night before, and suddenly Asriel is no longer kissing you, instead holding your hands carefully in his, like they’ll splinter if they’re handled too roughly.

He presses his forehead against your own, but you yourself are still. If you remain unmoving, then nothing bad can find you. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, running his thumb over your knuckles. Its a soothing gesture that nevertheless leaves you feeling shaken, because you’re an idiot, you guess, and a kind of paranoid anxiety that you haven’t felt in ages is suddenly crawling up your spine like a spider.

“I’m just thinking about something,” you say. “It’s not important.”

“I feel like it probably is,” Asriel replies, and something painful clenches in your chest. You know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter, that it _shouldn’t,_ yet here he is looking worried, as though it possibly maybe matters after all.

It makes you want to let yourself be bitter, the way you always used to do before, and…well, you _are_ taking the night off. It’s probably okay to vent a little, isn’t it? Especially if it’s only just the two of you?

“People were being gross today,” you say. “I’m dwelling on it far more than I should be.”

“What happened?”

“Just gossip,” you explain, keeping your gaze steady on Asriel’s paws as they cover your hands. It’s good to have something to focus on. “Did you know that people still complain about humans and monsters interacting, even after all this time? It’s _exhausting_. You’re always hearing about how monsters are basically animals, and how they can’t be trusted around human children, and how it’s sick when humans and monsters become close. It’s kind of funny, actually, how dumb people can be.”

You intentionally make no reference to what specifically the aforementioned people were saying about you. Even so, Asriel immediately replies, “I’ll break their skulls.”

A snort of laughter escapes before you can help it. “Holy shit, Asriel.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, not sounding remotely apologetic. Sorry! Reflex. But…if that’s why you’re upset, then…”

“It’s not important,” you repeat, because you need to drum it into your skull as much as possible. You need to be a grown-up. You need to prove those people wrong. You’re not some half-formed _thing_ , the monsters haven’t damaged you, there’s nothing wrong with caring about Asriel. You have to let go of all your petty grudges, no matter how much they get under your skin, because if you don’t, you’ll be just as bad as everyone whose hurt you, if not worse.

(You don’t think that’s actually how it works, but the rest of humanity sure seems to think otherwise, and who’s more likely to be wrong?)  

“It _is_ important,” Asriel replies, but although he sounds heated, his touch is still gentle. You’re grateful for that; you feel kind of fragile at the moment, and if he were any rougher, you’d probably retreat even further into the depths of yourself. “It upset you, didn’t it? That means it’s important.”

“That’s some pretty shitty logic,” you say, unable to resist a smile, but it’s a hard smile. “It _also_ upsets me when Frisk gets to use the shower before I do. That doesn’t make it something worth cracking heads over.”

“Well, this isn’t _about_ showers,” Asriel insists, looking even more flustered than before. Honestly, he’s so precious; hat would he do if you kissed him again right now? “It’s about you, and people being _jerks._ And if I ever catch anybody at it, I’ll make them pay, because nobody gets to be rude to you like that, not as long as I’m around.”

“You don’t even know what they said, dummy.”

“Well, it must’ve been bad, right? If you got this mad at them about it?”

A heartbeat of silence.

Then, sounding bewildered: “You didn’t?”

“I didn’t want to start a fight,” you say through nearly-gritted teeth. Funny how much it hurts to speak of one’s noble intentions like this. “I’m trying to be more mature about this sort of thing.”

“But they were being awful,” he says, still sounding bewildered. “You’re allowed to get angry when people hurt you.”

“I _really_ don’t need you telling me off about this,” you say, smiling as tightly as you can. Asriel flinches under your gaze, but you don’t look away. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do in this situation, okay? Maybe _I’m_ the weird one for getting upset. Maybe I’m just making a big deal out of nothing. Apparently I’m horrible for getting mad so much when I was younger. Maybe _this_ is what I need to do to be normal.”

“ _I’ve_ never thought that you were horrible,” Asriel replies, sounding wounded.

You sigh and roll your eyes. “That’s different.”

“Why is it different?”

“Because,” you begin, then stop when your cheeks grow warm. It takes a moment to collect yourself in anticipation of what you’re about to say, but finally you manage, “Because I actually _like_ you. I care what you think of me. And if you don’t think I’m horrible, then it’s okay to be a little horrible sometimes. It’s not okay around others.”

“But if you don’t care what they think, then why does it matter at all?” 

“This is getting stupid,” you snap. “Neither one of us understands humanity and pretty soon we’ll be going in circles. Can we just leave it at ‘this is what it takes for humans to think I’m fine?’”

“So…you want humans to like you?” Asriel asks, and honestly, you’d probably be laughing about how bewildered he looks if it weren’t also frustrating as hell.

“ _No,_ stupid,” you say, feeling your smile soften into something far less ferocious than it was before. "I don’t care about that.”  

Asriel opens his mouth as if to speak, then pauses, mouth clapping shut. Then, looking even more puzzled than before, he asks, “What _else_ would you care about?”

“You guys, duh” you say immediately. No hesitation whatsoever; this has always been your ultimate truth, above and beyond anything else. “I don’t care if people think I’m somehow debasing myself, but I care that they think so specifically because I’m dating you, or because they think Toriel and Asgore have ruined me instead of acknowledging what humans did. I won’t let them insult my family.”

Asriel frowns.

He’s silent for so long that you begin to wonder if you should crack a joke to try and save the mood, but finally he says, “You’re my family too, though. You should have told me outright so that I could get mad for you instead if you didn’t want to do it for yourself.”

“I don’t need you any angrier than you already are,” you say. “We don’t have any more dishes you can break.”

“But that’s kind of the point of family, isn’t it?” Asriel asks, ignoring the dishes comment. He sounds genuinely curious, as though he honestly believes that you can tell him when you probably know the least about ‘family’ of anyone on the entire planet. “We get mad on one another’s behalf, and then everybody else knows not to mess with us. Then we can take out each other’s enemies if we can’t do it ourselves.”

“Wow,” you say. “You really have a twisted worldview, don’t you?”

“Well, it’s _true,”_ Asriel retorts, sounding petulant. But despite the awful things he’s saying, despite how large and beastly he’s become over the years, he still manages to make his sulking cute. It’s ridiculous. How did nature ever devise a creature such as this? “Family is anyone you’d kill for. And if I ever hear somebody saying things like that to you myself, I’ll destroy them.”

“It’s funny how you think you can destroy people,” you say affectionately. “You know I saw you crying for that ladybug you stepped on, right?”

Asriel frowns, looking as though he definitely has something he wants to say to that, but you’re feeling almost effervescent from his words. The idea that this righteous indignation that’s bubbling inside of you might be shared by other people in your life – that you might be somebody worth fighting for – has you feeling all light and floaty, and you’re not used to feeling floaty in a good way. Usually it’s because you’re dizzy or dissociating, but _this_ floatiness is almost pleasant.

You already knew what Asriel told you to be true to some extent, of course, but it’s something else entirely to have it reaffirmed after a day as exhausting as this one’s been.

And so you tug your hands out of Asriel’s, curling them around his neck and pulling him towards you.

Nothing else is said for quite some time.

Kissing has been strange between the two of you ever since Asriel hit his growth spurt. Suddenly, his muzzle is no longer flat enough for you to properly fit your mouth against his and his teeth are far too long for you to want to even risk it. But you’ve known each other for a long, long time, and over the years, you’ve managed to work out new choreography entirely for this dance.You, pressing a kiss against his snout; him, pressing a kiss against your jaw; you, nuzzling his cheek; him, kissing your nose, and on and on and on. Your mouths may not be compatible anymore, but you can still be close, even if others can’t always understand it, and as his hands cling to the back of your sweater and his tongue finds the hollow of your throat, you are trembling.

When you’ve had enough, you gently place your hands against Asriel’s chest, pushing him away. But you’re smiling, a true smile now, and he is too, and you feel as though all of your anxiety has ebbed away, replaced with pure affection for the boy in front of you.

_He loves me,_ you think, reminding yourself. That’s why he’s still with you, offering what comfort he knows how, even if it’s still a little warped. He loves you and you love him, and you love his parents too, and now you have Frisk and the entire underground to think about.

So long as you can keep the people you love close, then you’ll do your best not to care what anybody says. So long as you can have your chosen few, then nothing else matters.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The first time you emerge from your bedroom all evening, it’s because Asriel’s fallen asleep and you desperately need tea again.

Frisk is in the living room playing some video game, but they briefly glance up to offer you a wave when you approach. “Feeling any better?” they ask.

“Sucking face _always_ makes me feel better,” you reply. “It’s like his tongue is a panacea.”

“Gross,” Frisk answers happily, and they return to their game.

Once you have your tea, you plop beside them on the couch, watching as the little guy onscreen hacks away at a spectacularly bosomed demon.

You say, “I don’t think I particularly want to be a good person.”

Thankfully, Frisk doesn’t seem surprised, despite having zero context for your statement. Without missing a beat, they say, “Alright.”

You sigh, and onscreen, Frisk’s little person grunts and swings a sword.

“Why am I still trying to figure this shit out?” you ask. “I thought I worked it out when I was twelve, but then I tried to just ignore it, because I decided it was pointless. And now I _can’_ t ignore it anymore, but I _still_ don’t know if I can manage it myself. Am I just supposed to spend the rest of my life feeling frustrated and wondering if I'm garbage or not?"

“I think most people do.”

“What kind of bullshit system is that? Why can’t there just be absolute good and bad and rules for being both? Why is everything so fucking _ambiguous_ and _subjective?”_

Frisk shrugs. More grunting and the sound of clashing metal.

And then, with no preamble whatsoever, they say, “I’m kind of jealous of you sometimes.”

You make a face. The very concept is repugnant. “Why?” you demand.

“I don’t like fighting,” Frisk answers simply, staring intently at the television. Their little man decapitates a skeleton. You’re not entirely sure why that kills it. “Sometimes people say or do hurtful things, and I can’t respond, because I don’t want them to be mad at me or think that I’m annoying. But I always get upset about it later, and…I think it’s probably better to be mean sometimes than it is to let people be jerks just because you don’t want to cause trouble. They’re the ones causing trouble in the first place, right? And maybe being mean sometimes can stop that.”

You can’t think of anything to say to that.

Frisk shrugs. “Or maybe not,” they add. “I’m not really sure what I’m talking about.”

Something onscreen emits a dying wail, and for possibly the first time, it occurs to you that Frisk must have been hearing everything that you have. Frisk, who’s always smiling. Frisk, who’s always been the diplomat. Frisk, the sweetest, softest soul you know, who’s never once let on to anything that’s troubling them, not even when they sprained their ankle and spent a week limping.

You won’t let them be hurt by this, not if you can help it.

But...

It’s too late for this kind of discussion, you decide. It can wait, even though you’ve only just rediscovered your resolve.

And so, you finish your tea and watch Frisk play their game.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, you wake up on the sofa with a blanket tucked around you.

You decide it doesn’t really matter who the one to tuck you in was. Your heart feels swollen with enough grateful affection for the both of them.   

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next time you overhear a stranger offering their unsolicited opinion of you walking hand-in-hand with Asriel, you don’t deck them the way you’re immediately compelled to, because you’re an adult and there are consequences to such behaviour these days.

But if you have a few choice words for them (okay, a _lot_ of choice words for them), and if they’re crying when you’re done, then that’s not your problem. And if Asriel chooses to smile, baring all his teeth, and politely wave goodbye, showing off his claws, then that’s not your problem either. And if Frisk is maybe just a tiny bit more eager for the details than they’d want the others to know, then that’s _definitely_ not your problem, and you’re more than happy to share.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

The year you turn eighteen, you decide to try your hand at being a good person. Not long afterwards, you stop, and eventually you decide that you’re probably much happier for it.


End file.
